Chapter Text
Severus Snape prided himself on his ability to maintain composure under any circumstance.
He had survived two wars, Voldemort’s reign of terror, and years of dunderheaded students. He had even survived Harry Bloody Potter—who, through an unfortunate lapse in judgment and a legally binding ceremony, was now Harry Bloody Potter‐Snape, his husband .
But this ?
This was something else entirely.
After an ingredients run, expecting a quiet evening with a soothing mug of tea and a moment of much-needed solitude, Severus stepped into his office.
Instead, he was met by absolute, catastrophic, irreversible chaos.
There, rampaging through his sanctuary, were five kittens—identical in their messy black hair, impossibly bright green eyes, and even a faint lightning‐scar etched onto their tiny foreheads.
For a split second, Severus’s breath caught as his brain struggled to process the impossible scene before him.
Then, his horror solidified.
One kitten was perched regally on the back of his desk chair, its tail flicking like a king surveying its kingdom. Another was busily batting at a toppled inkpot, leaving a trail of paw‐print “art” across his freshly written notes—including a particularly rare potion formula he had spent hours perfecting.
Two little menaces were wrestling atop a closed cauldron, their tiny war cries echoing through the air as they pushed and shoved as though it were a dueling ring.
And then, there was the smallest one.
Scrambling enthusiastically at the hem of his robes, sharp little claws hooking into the fabric, attempting to climb him like a mountain.
I am in hell.
And then, as if sensing his presence, five pairs of impossibly bright green eyes turned toward him.
A beat of silence.
And then—
Chaos.
A blur of black fur and tiny paws surged toward him like he was the last solid thing in existence.
The kitten from the chair launched itself off without hesitation, landing straight into his lap and curling up immediately—as if this had been its destination all along.
Another darted up his robes, tiny claws scrambling against the fabric as it scaled him like a seasoned climber, reaching his shoulder with unsettling efficiency.
The smallest one, bounding forward, tripped over its own paws but recovered without hesitation, flinging itself onto his boot, where it clung with terrifying determination.
The two remaining kittens wove between his legs, colliding into each other in their enthusiasm, their tiny mews forming a chorus of needy cries that left no doubt—
They had claimed him.
They considered him their entire world.
And Severus?
Severus wanted to scream.
Before he could formulate a plan of attack, a softly amused voice broke through the chaos.
"Ah, Severus, there you are."
Severus did not need to look up to know exactly who had come to witness his suffering.
His eyes remained fixed on the horde of kittens attached to him, but his voice came out a low, menacing growl.
"Minerva."
Minerva McGonagall entered his office, her usual composure intact—save for the way her lips twitched like she was barely restraining laughter.
"It would appear," she said, as if this were merely a minor inconvenience, "that your husband’s attempt at an advanced Animagus transformation in front of the sixth years has… well, backfired."
Severus’s left eye twitched so violently he thought it might detach.
"Backfired," he repeated, his voice as flat as the floor the kittens were currently ruling over.
Minerva, either immune or wholly unconcerned with the pure, unfiltered rage radiating from him, continued in her usual calm, measured tone.
"A stray hex from one of the students collided with the spell, and instead of a proper transformation, it… split him into five distinct versions—each one embodying a facet of his personality."
Severus’s entire body went rigid.
"Split?"
"Split," she confirmed, her tone far too entertained for his liking.
Severus, with the slowest, most controlled motion imaginable, tilted his head down—his expression void of all patience—to stare at the tiny, purring versions of his husband now clinging to him like barnacles.
One headbutted his hand. Another climbed further up his shoulder, nuzzling against his jaw with clear affection.
The smallest let out a soft little trill, kneading the fabric of his robes like it was the most comfortable place in the world.
Severus inhaled deeply through his nose.
"You will fix this," he said, his tone dangerously even.
Minerva tilted her head as if considering.
"The counter‐spell will take three days to prepare," she informed him cheerfully, as though this were an everyday occurrence.
Three.
Days.
Severus closed his eyes for a very long moment.
"Remove them immediately," he ordered, already feeling the beginnings of a severe headache forming.
But when he glanced down, he found that each kitten had already claimed a part of him:
- One was perched on his shoulder, kneading softly.
- Another had burrowed into the crook of his arm, peering up at him with adoring green eyes.
- The rest had piled themselves against his legs, their tiny bodies pressed close, tails flicking as though they were already settled in for the night.
Severus did not have a single limb free to push them away.
Minerva, clearly enjoying his torment, turned to leave.
"Good luck, Severus," she said, and without a single ounce of remorse, she vanished into the hallway.
Severus glared at the empty doorway.
"I hate everything," he muttered darkly.
What followed was an unending nightmare:
- One kitten swiped his favorite quill and took off, leading him on a futile chase around the room.
- Another knocked over his ink bottle, splattering his newly written research notes.
- One got stuck on a bookshelf and wailed dramatically until Severus, against his better judgment, rescued it.
- One attempted to "help" with his potion brewing and nearly dove headfirst into a cauldron.
- And, worst of all, when bedtime arrived, he quickly realized his room had been claimed.
His bed? Occupied.
His pillows? Infested.
His blankets? A kitten nesting ground.
One kitten had even positioned itself directly in the middle of his chest, refusing to move.
He attempted to sleep on the sofa.
It did not help.
At some point during the night, they found him there too.
One curled up against his neck, purring obnoxiously into his ear. Another climbed onto his stomach, settling in like a weighted blanket.
By midnight, Severus lay wide awake, utterly defeated.
He glared at the ceiling.
I survived Voldemort, but not this.
And yet, despite himself, as he absently scratched behind a kitten’s ears, it pressed against him, nuzzling his palm in gratitude.
Before he even realized what he was doing, he pressed a brief, resigned kiss to its tiny forehead.
The kitten blinked up at him, startled but pleased, before purring even louder.
Severus exhaled, long and slow.
"I am losing my mind."
Yet, even as the thought solidified, he found himself stroking tiny heads, soft purring lulling him into reluctant sleep.